


Omelets

by Taamar



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Character Study, Food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-02 01:36:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4040647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taamar/pseuds/Taamar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack and Ianto approach life, and omelets, very differently. A culinary character study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Omelets

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on fanfiction.net, this was my very, very first time posting something I’d written. Like, ever. This story was originally just Ianto and Jack, but expanded to include the rest of the team by popular request. I’ve condensed the chapters, since each omelet is about 300 words. Original chapter notes are in italics.

 

**IANTO**

Ianto makes an omelet with the same precision with which he lives his life. He begins by assembling his ingredients: three eggs, cheese, and butter. He sets the salt and pepper mills on the counter by the stove, then takes out a small bowl, a fork, a grater, a spatula, the old cast iron skillet that’s never been washed, and its cover. The pan goes on the stove over medium heat, and Ianto adds a teaspoon of butter, then puts the butter away. While the butter melts he cracks the eggs into the bowl. He then washes his hands, because you can’t be too careful. He adds a tablespoon of water to the eggs and beats them until the mixture is a smooth, even yellow. He adds salt and pepper, three twists of each, from his mills. He uses the spatula to swish the melted butter in his skillet and pours the eggs in. He sets his timer for 2 minutes and rinses the bowl and fork in the sink.

 While he waits for the eggs to set, he grates an ounce of cheese (usually cheddar, Gruyere when he’s feeling sassy) and glances at the timer. He’s got 30 seconds, so Ianto washes the grater and the bowl and sets them on the rack to dry. When the timer beeps he gives the skillet a little shake. The eggs are almost set, so he lifts the edges of his omelet to let the uncooked part spill underneath. He adds the grated cheese in a strip down the center and carefully folds the edges over. The skillet comes off the heat and he sets it aside with the cover on to finish cooking while he gets out a plate and washes the fork. Once he’s put the omelet on the plate, he wipes out the skillet and rinses the spatula, feeling a little guilty about not washing it immediately. Ianto looks down as the product of his efforts and smiles; it’s exactly like every other omelet he’s made. Perfect.

**JACK**

Jack makes an omelet with the same abandon with which he lives his life. He takes out three eggs and cracks them into an oversized coffee mug he’s just rinsed. He rummages through the fridge looking for ingredients and inspiration and finds an eclectic collection of leftovers and condiments: Italian sausage from last week’s lunch, feta and olives from the top a Greek salad, sun dried tomatoes from a little jar in the back (who knows how long they’d been there), and a handful of wilting basil from his attempt at making Thai food. Jack chops up the olives and tomatoes and adds them to his eggs, then spots a nearly empty glass of wine and adds a splash of that, too. He mixes his ingredients together and then sets them aside to look for the pan to cook them in. He finds his non-stick skillet in the sink, still dirty. He shrugs and rinses it in hot water before putting it on the stove over high heat. A generous glorp of butter goes in, and he watches it sizzle and brown. He pours the eggs into the pan. While the eggs cook, Jack roughly chops the sausage, feta, and basil together and licks his fingers. When the eggs are almost set he smiles. This is his favourite part: he gives the pan a little shake to loosen the omelet and flips it with a quick movement of his wrist. There’s always a risk, flipping an omelet, and he’s lost more than a few, but it’s worth it. He piles his fillings on one side and slides the omelet on to a plate, using the edge of the skillet to fold the other side over. He grabs the fork (the same one he used to mix the eggs), and takes a bite, leaving the pan and everything else exactly where he set it when he stopped using it. His omelet is delicious, and unique, like no other he’s ever made. Perfect.

* * *

 

_I wanted to write something, and they say to write what you know. I know omelets; I’ve made thousands. Literally, thousands._

 

* * *

 

 

**GWEN**

Gwen Cooper couldn’t make an omelet if her life depended on it. Fortunately, it doesn’t, and even more fortunately, she has Rhys. Rhys can make _anything_ in the kitchen, and Gwen is more than happy to let him.

So she sits and watches, with her coffee in the morning or a glass of wine in the evening, and talks to him about her day. He knows about Torchwood now, so while Rhys breaks the eggs into his mother’s old mixing bowl and fishes the broken shells out with his fingers she laughs with him about Owen losing a bet and having to wear her high heels around the Hub. Then he dumps the eggs in the big skillet she gave him for his birthday (“Are you hinting?” he had asked) and tells her about the Harwood’s driver who was arrested for driving without his trousers on. Rhys, though he looks big and clumsy, moves around the kitchen with quiet competence. Gwen loves competence, loves it in all the people she works with, and wonders why it took her so long to realize that Rhys has it too. He shreds the cheese smoothly, without looking down, and slices the ham into perfect, thin slices effortlessly, never once breaking the rhythm of his story. She once commented on his skill, and he had said, “You just save the world, sweetheart, and leave the real work to me.” And it _is_ real work. Gwen can handle guns and aliens and finding Jack and Ianto half-naked in the hothouse, but she could never gently fold an omelet around its filling without breaking it the way Rhys does. She needs that, needs a real life to keep her grounded.

So when Rhys slides an omelet made for two onto a large plate and hands her a fork, Gwen reminds herself that, for all that Jack has called her the heart of Torchwood, she’d lose her humanity without this, this normal life. And the omelet, as always, is perfect. Just like Rhys.

* * *

 

_I never meant this to be anything but a oneshot (twoshot?), but I was making an omelet this morning and it struck me how very normal it is. So this is more about being normal than about the actual omelet. Sorry about that._

 

* * *

 

 

 

**TOSH**

Tosh only makes omelets when she’s had a bad day. Not ‘late for work, broke a heel, coffee was cold’ kind of bad day, either. No, omelets are reserved for ‘my boss sent my girlfriend to the center of the sun’ bad days. She doesn’t often make traditional Japanese foods, but Obachan (grandmother) had always made tamagoyaki for her when she’d come home crying because the other children were cruel to her, and it had become her comfort food. Numb from her day, Tosh starts up her little one-person rice cooker, retrieves two eggs from the carton, and puts the kettle on for tea.

She still has Oba’s omelet pan, steel cooked to deep patina and seasoned through decades of use. As it heats on the stove, Tosh whips her eggs smooth with the usual additions (sugar, soy sauce, dashi, and mirin). The kettle boils, and she pours the water into a mug with tea leaves, breathing in the toasted aroma of genmaicha. It soothes her. When she can smell the omelet pan (sharp and metallic) she slicks it with oil and pours a thin layer of egg into the pan. She has to pay close attention—if the egg cooks too much it won’t hold together when she rolls it; if not enough, it sticks to the pan. When the egg is just barely set, she quickly rolls it to one side of the pan with chopsticks and pours in more egg. Over and over, Tosh rolls and pours, rolls and pours, until the raw egg is gone and she has a log of omelet. She turns it out on the cutting board and allows it to cool slightly while she dishes up a bowl of rice from the cooker.

Tosh slices the omelet and arranges it on the rice, then garnishes it with a few snips of the green onion she keeps wrapped in damp paper towel in the bottom of her refrigerator.  She doesn’t bother taking her dinner to the table, just leans against the counter holding the bowl up and shoveling food directly into her mouth like a child, taking occasional sips of scalding hot tea between bites. It helps. It always does. Tosh’s day was absolute shit, but the omelet is perfect.

* * *

 

_This was dinner last night, though no one sent my girlfriend to the center of the sun. And yes, Owen has an omelet too; I just haven’t made it yet. Also… it seems to take about 300 words to make an omelet, any omelet. Who knew?_

* * *

 

**OWEN**

Owen learned how to make an omelet from Katie. Perhaps he should be bothered that he’s now making it for Diane, but he’s not; he has a feeling Katie would approve of this more than she would of any other part of his life. He thinks about her while he breaks six eggs into a large bowl and mixes them with a fork. He rarely cooks anymore, but he still has all the kitchenware that they’d bought together, minus several glasses and plates that he’d thrown. He’s still angry about what happened, but time has muted the pain somewhat, and as Owen looks across the studio at Diane, who is sprawled across the bed, he thinks it’s time to move on.

An omelet for two calls for a large skillet, the beautiful ten-inch stainless steel one that Owen’s used maybe twice. He digs it out of the cupboard and sets it on the stove to heat. He has his ingredients on hand, he’d picked them up the night before, when he’d planned his romantic evening with Diane. Brie, smoked salmon, and spinach. While the butter melts in the pan, he slices the brie and the salmon, and chops the spinach a bit. When the butter starts to sizzle, the eggs go in. Owen suddenly remembers coffee, and sets his drip machine to make a small pot. It’s another thing he hasn’t used in a long time, usually he just waits until he gets to the office.

He jiggles the pan and sees that the bottom is set, so he arranges the remaining ingredients in the still-liquid egg and clamps the lid on. In the two minutes he knows it will take to set the top, he tidies up the kitchen a bit to impress Diane. When the time is up, he removes the lid and gently flips the omelet—more a frittata, if he’s honest—to brown the other side. He takes a plate and two forks out and pours two cups of coffee. When the omelet is plated toppings-up, Owen carries it, the forks, and the coffee over to the bedside table.  Diane wakes and smiles, and Owen is glad he took the time to make the perfect omelet for a perfect morning.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to capture personalities in these; I know Owen is usually more abrasive, but I wrote bitchy!Owen in Plumage, and I wanted to see his softer side.
> 
> And... that's the last of them! My very first attempt at writing come full circle. Thanks all for your support and reviews, it's given me the courage to write other stuff, most of which I don't know half as well as I know omelets.


End file.
